Warhorse
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Modern Warfare 2. Warrant Officer Andrew Speer, pilot of Warhorse 5-1, is one of the most skilled and daring Pave Low pilots in the Army, and he has a copilot to match. Against the last two men of Task Force 141, however, even Shadow Company's best flyers may not be skilled or daring enough.
1. Chapter 1- The Rendezvous

**Chapter I- The Rendezvous**

The big, khaki-painted Pave Low, callsign Warhorse 5-1, swooped low over the rocky, reddish-tan terrain and the blue, rushing river. In the cockpit, Andrew Speer turned to his copilot, William Barnas, both of them peering out of their windows at the action below. Now and then they could see friendlies- other men of Shadow Company- rushing to firing positions, or racing along the river in small motorboats- Zodiacs. Occasionally something blew up. But from the radio chatter jamming up the line, Speer could tell two things- one Zodiac contained the big cheese, Golden Eagle- and the other carried his worst enemies.

Site Hotel Bravo had fallen just minutes ago; Speer's Pave Low had gone airborne just seconds after General Shepherd gave the order to evacuate, then triggered pre-set explosives to destroy the headquarters of the base just minutes later. Now they were racing to get ahead of the speeding motorboats in the river, and Speer's heart was racing; Shepherd's life was on the line. His buddies in Shadow Company were giving it their all, but those rogue sons of bitches left over from Task Force 141 were good. They were _too_ damn good, and Shepherd was counting on his personal pilot- Speer- to snatch him out of the fire.

Normally, the thought of being the one to save the great Lieutenant General Herschel von Shepherd III's ass would have been amusing to Speer- but not today. Speer and his copilot brought the Pave Low just as low over the Afghan terrain as they dared, craning to get a fix on the lead Zodiac so they could land somewhere downriver.

As the Pave Low flew over a bridge that had a burned-out T-72 sitting on it, Golden Eagle's voice barked in Speer's radio, "Warhorse 5-1, this is Golden Eagle- give me a sitrep, over!"

Speer understood the urgency of the situation fully in that moment, if he hadn't before- Shepherd's voice was demanding, impatient- the sound of a man who knew death was hot on his heels. Not scared- Shepherd didn't seem to know how to be scared- but aware, at least, of what was just 40 meters behind him upriver. Shepherd wasn't stupid; he knew he was in trouble here.

As Speer leveled out over the river, spotting a point where the rapids widened out just before they went around a corner and over a cliff, he keyed his mike and answered in a controlled voice, "I'll set her down downriver, sir- be ready for pickup when you are."

"Copy that, Warhorse," Shepherd shouted. "Make it fast, we're comin' in hot!"

Speer and Barnas exchanged looks; whoever it was that was coming after Shepherd, whoever those two men were- they were damn good. _Damn_ good. No one else could have possibly stayed alive so long; not against Shepherd and Shadow Company.

But Speer didn't have time to think about that. There was no time to waste on who was after Shepherd- what mattered was getting him away from them. Speer flew for Shadow Company because he knew Shepherd was the right man, in the right place, at the right time. He was the man America needed- and with the start of World War III just days ago, Shepherd was needed now more than ever.

Most pilots would have balked at so rapid an extraction mission- a five minute flight from Firebase Phoenix and less than a minute to drop down, land in a river, and take off again- but Speer wasn't like most pilots. He could fly the big, heavy Pave Low like it was a tiny, nimble MD-500, the "Little Bird", and landing in a river no wider than a two-lane road was easy for him.

Answering Shepherd as centered the Pave Low over the river and brought it in for the landing, Speer said, "Roger, Golden Eagle- we're on the deck in 10- dropping the hatch."

Turning around in his seat as the Pave Low hovered so low its retracted nose gear was sprayed with the rushing water, Speer said to Barnas in a voice strained with urgency, "Drop the hatch!"

Barnas flipped a switch, and the ramp at the back of the helicopter came down, the river's water rushing up and onto it.

Its engine roaring, the dark form of the Zodiac shot down the river towards them. It couldn't have been any more than five seconds before the boat sped up the ramp, its propeller blades whacking against the steel deck inside.

Instantly, the four Shadow Company soldiers and Shepherd himself were out of it, strapping themselves into troop seats on either side of the bay.

Keying his mike, Speer pulled back on the controls and gunned the throttle; the Pave Low hauled itself up from the river with surprising speed, leaving the chasing Zodiac with the ex-141 men in it far behind. Banking forward and putting on speed, Speer said on a channel he knew his Shadow Company brothers could hear, "Golden Eagle is on board; I say again, Golden Eagle is on-board. We're outta here!"

Then Barnas swore violently, just as the Pave Low swooped over the waterfall ahead. Looking ahead, Speer swore too.

Into his radio again, Speer said as much to friendly units as to his passengers, "We got a sandstorm blowin' in at 12 o'clock; we're gonna have to take the long way around. Hang on!"

"Speer!" Barnas yelled, his voice suddenly gripped with alarm.

"What? What the fuck-" Speer was banking the Pave Low into a turn, and for just a few seconds the broad side of Warhorse 5-1 would be exposed to her starboard side. And down there, on the waterfall perhaps three hundred feet away and a hundred feet below- a single Zodiac, holding in place. One man was steering, the other- aiming a rifle!

"Shit!" Speer swore and shoved the controls forward, gunning the engines hard and putting Warhorse 5-1 into the sharpest climb she could take. The Pave Low groaned, its engines straining to respond, struggling to get away-

KA-_WHAM_!

"_Speer_!" Barnas yelled, looking up with a look of horror on his face. "We're hit, we're hit!"

But Speer already knew that. Suddenly his Warhorse was a wild stallion in his hands, bucking and trying to throw him off her back. Sweat poured off his face as Speer fought back, straining to pull her out of the spinning dive she was plunging into, fire pouring from her engines. Barely able to spare enough oxygen to speak, Speer hit an open channel on his radio and shouted, "Mayday, Mayday! Warhorse 5-1 is going down!"

The ground rushed up at them in a hurry- Speer could hear Shepherd, who understood what was happening, yell at the men in the bay to brace for impact.

Warhorse slammed into the ground, much too hard. She keeled over on her starboard side, flames exploding from her fuel tanks as they breached. Barnas, thrown forward as a boulder smashed in his side of the cockpit, never had a chance. He died- hopefully- without ever knowing his legs were crushed in the process.

Still engaged in a desperate battle to regain control of his dying chopper, Speer never stopped, never even hesitated, until his chopper plowed into a sandy hillside and stopped suddenly. He was thrown forward by the impact, his helmet slamming into the controls; Speer blacked out instantly.

William Speer opened his eyes, coughing violently as he took in a breath and his lungs rejected the sand-filled air blowing in through the shattered glass of the cockpit. As he came to, he realised he was in more than a little pain; his chest, his knees- damn near his whole body- glowed with agony. Sitting up, the pilot glanced at his copilot- slumped in his seat, and very dead. The troop bay had two dead men inside, probably-hopefully- men from an outfit in Shadow Company that Speer didn't know. But then, Shadow was only about 200 guys, and they all stayed on close terms with their air-wing support. With a sickening feeling of dread, Speer realised he almost certainly knew those men. He knew at least the names of everybody in his unit.

How many men had died today? How many wounded? The radio chatter alone- the sharp increase in units and individuals no longer reporting in, and the desperate, frantic nature that the firefight had taken on, said a lot. So many of Shadow's men were down and out; so many were lying back there in the hills and among the rocks, dying and desperately in need of help that would probably never come in time… if it came at all.

As he unbuckled he straps that still worked and cut himself free of the ones that didn't with his field knife, Speer realised he was trembling. He was scared, he was in pain- and a lot of his friends were dead. The sandstorm roared around him, cutting visibility to no more than twenty feet at times.

Speer felt like he'd crash-landed on a Martian landscape. He'd never felt so alone.


	2. Chapter 2- Endgame

**Chapter II- Endgame**

The young Warrant Officer- the first grade of that rank, Speer wasn't even yet twenty-two years old- turned to his left and instinctively reached for the pilot's side door. But there was no door; wrenched away in the crash, it lay somewhere among the debris. Speer reached for a door that didn't exist and tumbled out, crying out in pain as his damaged body bounced hard on the ground.

He struggled to his feet. Briefly, he swayed, tottered, then fell again. Breathing hard, Speer forced himself to his feet once more. He looked around him; briefly, Speer spotted a burned-out car maybe a hundred feet away; he thought he saw a man in ACU's leaned up against it.

Shepherd had made it out.

Speer nodded a little, satisfied; he could feel a little better now, knowing his most important charge had gotten out of the crash alive. He'd have to see to the General soon, make sure he got an extraction called in- but first, he had to see to the other men who'd been aboard. Shepherd was his boss- but these men were his friends.

Crying a little, out of desperation and shock, Speer staggered around to the side door to the Pave Low's troop bay. The Zodiac was gone; thrown out and left behind when the Pave Low had struck the ground and the ramp dropped open. Two men in black uniforms, black helmets and balaclavas lay to one side, slumped over and motionless. Speer grabbed each man's wrist, feeling for a pulse he knew he'd never get. Turning their faces up and checking for tags, Speer felt a jolt of horror and grief as he saw these were indeed men he knew. Michaels, a buddy who had saved his brother's life in Iraq, and Booker, the best .50 cal gunner in 1st Platoon. Speer, still swaying on his feet and seeing the whole thing through a daze, mumbled apologies he knew would not be enough as he took the dead men's tags. He was sorry he hadn't gotten Warhorse out of there sooner; Speer just couldn't understand how he'd failed to do his job when everybody had been counting on him most. His buddies had trusted him, and he'd failed them. He'd lost his chopper, and God alone knew how many of his friends. There was no excuse for that.

Speer finally forced himself to his feet again, stumbling back out of the troop bay's rear. Where were the other two men who'd been on board? Where had they gone?

Circling around the starboard side, Speer noticed with horror a trail of blood- an awfully thick one. It stretched far off into the sandy wasteland, towards the river below the waterfall. Speer could see a dark form out there, still bleeding his life away as he dragged himself onward. Speer staggered forward, trying to find the words to call out to the man, to tell him to stop- but then he did. The soldier's desperate, agonized crawl- one that had gone on for over a hundred feet- slowed… and then stopped. The Shadow Company operator lay down, and was still. Speer didn't need to go over there and make sure the man was dead; he knew.

But he had to. He had to get the tags of everybody he'd lost on Warhorse 5-1 today, let everybody know who'd been with Shepherd until the very end. If they got out of here… maybe he could even take their tags home, and let the parents know who'd tried- tried- to save them.

As Speer took slow, uncertain steps down the slope the chopper had crashed at the base of, he spotted another man lying against a small boulder. He had a G18 pistol in one hand, and was sweeping the emptiness with it. When he heard Speer step closer, he swung around, aiming the weapon- and it clicked, empty. Click, click, click. Empty, empty, empty.

Speer stumbled, nearly collapsing beside the man. He coughed, hard- it hurt to cough. It hurt to breathe. Speer again wondered about the severity of his own injuries- he didn't even know how long he'd been out.

Speer forced himself up, though, kneeling beside the soldier from his unit. Looking closer at the man's face, Speer recognized him; it was Rawlins, the only guy in Shadow also from Speer's home county- Pocahontas County, West Virginia. Upon finding out about one another, the two had been good friends ever since. It was only natural.

The two young men stared at each other, each one's eyes pained and horribly tired. They were beyond their limits here; the human body had only so much trauma it could endure. Rawlins stared at the empty pistol, then at Speer; he looked so dismayed at the fact that he'd forgotten to reload his G18 since the ride in the Zodiac it was almost comical. Finally, his arm went limp, and he let the pistol sit on the ground beside him.

"I tried, man…" Rawlins said, his voice terribly sad. "I tried so hard. I'm sorry."

He stared off into the wasteland, his eyes taking on a glazed, faraway look.

Panic suddenly seized Speer; he gripped Rawlins by the shoulders, shaking him as much as he dared. "Come on, damn it! Stay with me, man! You're gonna be all right!" Speer was lying through his teeth, and he suspected both of them knew it. But he had to say something; anything but tell his friend from home he was a goner.

Speer felt for his own pistol; it was still there, strapped to his gray-green flight suit. Standard-issue M9. Glancing around him, making sure none of those ex-SAS devils had found him yet, Speer reached into Rawlin's rucksack, pulling out one of the canteens. He screwed the cap off, holding it up to Rawlins. "Come on, Rawlins- drink a little. You're gonna be all right!"

But Rawlins just stared back, shaking his head and smiling a little under his balaclava. "Nah, man, you keep it."

Then, so quietly Speer barely heard him, Rawlins said, "It's so beautiful out here."

Johnny Rawlins of Cass, West Virginia smiled a little, his mind so far away he was already back home. His eyes did not even see the barren wasteland of Afghanistan; Rawlins could no longer even perceive the sandstorm that was sweeping the land right now. His mind, so far into shock he barely even understood Will Speer was there, was already back home. He was home, sitting on a hillside… just awed at the beauty of those old, old mountains.

Speer tried to talk to his friend, desperately tried to tell him everything was gonna be fine, but Johnny Rawlins could no longer hear him. He lay back against the rock he'd crawled up to, smiled with that faraway look once more… then he was still.

Warhorse 5-1's pilot swore and sobbed, sobbed and swore. He leaned up against the small boulder also, no longer knowing or caring what Shepherd was doing. The General would just have to handle himself. Speer had endured all he could even hope to withstand. He weakly tried to key his headset again, but the radio was gone- knocked out in the crash like everything else. Speer just took off the helmet entirely, letting it fall to his side. He didn't need it, anyway.

Speer looked up suddenly; he had a sense someone was nearby. The young pilot trembled with fear when he saw who it was, and he instantly gave up the effort to go for his sidearm.

It was Captain Price. Speer knew the face, knew the name- the man had been one of the most famous British operators of the Second Russian Civil War. An SAS man among SAS men- one of the very finest warriors in the world. Speer had sat at the controls of Warhorse 5-1 not even two days ago, waiting for Shepherd to reboard the chopper while a group of TF 141 men were 'erased' in the hills of Northern Georgia, close to the Russian border.

Speer had been horrified at what was happening; no one even said a word about this when he'd flown Shepherd in to greet the men for the extraction. In fact, as the few 141 men who'd made it to the extraction were shot and their bodies burned, none of the men in Shadow had said much at all. They were distancing themselves as much as possible; zoning out.

And when they reembarked, leaving the flaming bodies behind, neither Speer nor Barnas had said anything. Not as Shepherd got back on board, not as Warhorse 5-1 lifted back into the sky, not even when Speer looked down and knew, somehow, that he'd just stood there and let a terrible wrong be done. Neither he nor Barnas, nor any of the other Shadow men had said anything. Maybe they had doubts- perhaps a few had their own private, traitorous thoughts, but no one said a thing. Not a word.

The pilot knew that Price knew what had happened. Vaguely, he wondered if the British soldier knew Speer had been there. Been there, and done nothing to stop it.

Speer looked up and saw Price, his appearance haggard and pushed far beyond the limits of human endurance- and yet, somehow, still ready to take on more- staring down at him, breathing hard and looking at the pilot with something very much like hatred. Speer shuddered, wincing again as his ribs ached. His whole body ached; and worst of all, his heart ached. Speer had been at war for two years now; he'd barely even found time to go back home. He loved flying- doing these impossible missions for Shadow had been his love, his addiction. But Speer just looked up at Price knowing he'd reached the end- there was a good chance he was done. Speer made no effort to rise, didn't even try to take his M9 from its holster. He just lay there beside his dead friend, gazing up at Captain Price with almost indifferent eyes.

But after just a moment, Speer realised Price was not looking at him anymore- he was looking at something right next to him. Suddenly, Speer saw a gash in his flight suit, a tear in the right breast pocket. He flew with a photo of him and his brother in that pocket, of him and little Peter on the day he'd finished flight school. It had been the proudest moment of Speer's life- better, even, than the day he'd gotten the first of his two Bronze Stars.

It was that photo, fallen out beside Speer, that Price was looking at. His eyes were still hard, his expression unreadable; but the hate faded just a little. He stepped closer, his voice deadly and quiet.

"Where's. Shepherd?"

Speer didn't even try to argue; he found he had no breath for speech anymore. He just raised one tired arm and pointed- off towards where he'd seen the General's form leaning against the burned-out car.

Price started off, soon running in that direction- Speer marveled that the British man even had the strength for that. Dimly, he realised that if even one of the SAS men caught up to Shepherd, there might be some real trouble headed the General's way. Then Speer sighed, a ragged sound that even he could barely hear over the howling wind. Then he coughed, his body again fighting something terribly wrong with it. Speer held a hand up to keep from inhaling sand as he gasped for air, and it came away spattered with blood.

The young pilot just shrugged, totally oblivious to the frantic efforts of his surviving brethren to locate the crash site- and to the desperate, three-man battle occurring not far behind him, not even a hundred feet away from Warhorse 5-1's shattered remains. He did not know about any of that, and he didn't have any interest in knowing. He just lay there beside his friend from home, clutching onto the photo that had fallen from his pocket and keeping it from blowing away in the wind.

Perhaps his friends would find him soon- those that were left alive in Shadow Company. Maybe it would be Shepherd he'd see instead- or one of those TF-141 killers, back to finish the job. Someone would come, sooner or later. Speer knew of that- he also knew he might die if help was too long in coming. All that pain left over from the crash sure didn't seem to be going anywhere. No, indeed.

Exhausted beyond all description, Speer just lay near the wreckage of his helicopter, waiting to see who it was that would find him first. He did not know- and nobody could make him care.


End file.
